I was drawing Orange Is The New Black fanart and reading “The Handmaid's Tale” in the front seat of my Tesla when a call came in.
I tweeted about male privilege to the radio to activate it. It was the she-chief.
“Bad news, detective. We got a situation.”
“What? Is Trump trying to ban trans people again?”
“Worse. The Senate just confirmed Brett Kavanaugh.”
The vibrator practically fell out of my anus. “What kind of monster would do something like that? Rape allegations are the ultimate currency: virtual, anonymous, stateless. They represent true feminine freedom, not subject to prosecution by any government. Do we have any leads?”
“Not yet. But mark my words: we’re going to figure out who did this and we’re going to take them down … provided a male feminist doesn't rape someone before we do so.”
“Easy, chief,” I said. “Any male is, by definition, a rapist.”
She laughed. “That’s why you’re the best I got, Lisowski. Now you get out there and find those manspreaders.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m on it.”